Table of Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Coming Soon
The Ghost
and The Graveyard
Genevieve Jack
The Ghost and The Graveyard: The Monk’s Hill Witch series, Book 1
Copyright © 2012 Carpe Luna Publishing
Published by Carpe Luna, Ltd., PO Box 5932, Bloomington, IL 61701
www.carpeluna.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.
Second Edition: February 2013
eISBN: 978-0-9852367-3-1
Cover design by Adam Bedore at Anjin Design, photo by Hot Damn Designs.
www.anjindesign.com
v 1.0
Chapter 1
I Get What I Pay For
Welcome to Red Grove.
Population 200
“Now, two hundred and one,” I murmured as I passed the painted wooden sign in my trusty red Jeep. I was here to start over. Could a new life be hiding behind the lackluster rural exterior? Judging by the cemetery on my left, Red Grove was where people came to die, not to live. Hell, I think there were more than two hundred headstones stretched across the landscape. More dead than living.
There must be some mistake.
I double-checked the notebook with my father’s scrawled directions resting on the passenger’s seat next to me. When I shifted my attention back to my driving, my foot drifted from the gas, and I overcorrected the wheel. Holy shit!
The man on the side of the road was so attractive I could’ve died—literally. He was planting something. A tree, I think. Every time his shovel hit the dirt, it sent a ripple through his shoulders and down his stomach. The glint of sun on tanned, shirtless skin had me raising an eyebrow in appreciation. Dark hair, low slung jeans. I tried not to gawk, but the best I could do was to keep my head inside the window.
I was thinking he belonged in a museum, a chiseled-by-the-gods man museum, when my brain was hijacked. I forgot about the road. I forgot where I was going. A fantasy hit me so fast and hard, it could’ve been a memory.
We were in the shower. I was behind him, my arms wrapped around his torso. I rubbed lather circles down his chest, over his rock-hard abs, and lower. In my daydream, he moaned my name, and I was considering how to move myself around him without breaking the rhythm. The scene was so vivid, the lavender scent of soap filled the cab of my Jeep.
What snapped me out of it was a barrage of pebbles hitting the undercarriage. I slammed on the brakes, sending my vehicle into a reckless skid toward the edge of a stone bridge straight out of one of those Thomas Kinkade prints. Whether it was ace driving skills, gravity, or sheer dumb luck, I stalled at the precipice, all white-knuckles and shivering limbs. I suppressed a lingering fear of plummeting to my doom.
“Hey, are you okay?” the man called. He’d dropped his shovel and was heading toward me, his dark eyes narrowed in concern.
No way was I explaining what just happened. I couldn’t possibly tell him about my fantasy and I wasn’t a good enough liar to make up an alternate story on the fly. The hot sting of a blush crept across my face just thinking about it.
“I’m okay. Thanks!” I gave a friendly wave out my window.
He nodded at me but didn’t stop walking toward my car.
Before he could reach me, I accelerated back on course, leaving him staring in my direction. I wasn’t trying to be rude. Besides the obvious embarrassment, I had no business talking to a man who looked like that. I had no business talking to any man. Not until I got my life back together.
I reached the end of the road and pulled into the driveway of the house that would be my salvation, my financial rebirth. The truth was, I had bigger things to worry about than a man on the side of the road, no matter how gorgeous. It was time to face my future.
Wedged behind the tailgate of my Jeep was one, large moving box. I sighed. My entire life fit inside a cardboard cube with the logo of a defunct trucking company. Technically, the box wasn’t even mine; I’d borrowed it from my friend Michelle.
The wrinkled cardboard flaps bowed like judgmental eyebrows, and I slapped them down with unnecessary vigor before reaching for the mammoth cargo. Too big to carry from the bottom without completely blocking my face but without those convenient cutout handles you find on cases of beer, I hoisted the box using the pressure hold, bear-hugging the cardboard to my chest and resting the bottom on my knee. Of course, this meant I was doing the shuffle step up the stone pathway to the porch as the box slid down my body centimeter by centimeter. By the time I reached the bottom step, I was holding it up with my flexed foot and hopping toward the door.
That’s when my hip started vibrating. With one final heave and a contortion of my limbs that must’ve looked to the squirrel watching me from the lawn like I was having a seizure, I propelled the box onto the porch and ripped the phone from my pocket.
“Hello,” I said, in a tone that clearly meant goodbye.
“Grateful? Is that you?”
It was my best friend, Michelle, so I put on my happy voice. “Yeah, it’s me. Sorry, you just caught me trying to launch the moving box from hell onto the porch.”
“I knew I should’ve helped you move.”
“It’s one box. I think I can handle it.”
“Right. That bastard.”
“It was my own fault. I handed him the money. Who gives a boyfriend that kind of money?” I rolled my eyes at my own stupidity.
“You can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault for trusting someone you loved. I’m telling you, you’re a victim of the blonde paradox.”
Michelle and I attended nursing school together. After we graduated, I’d had enough of academia. She, on the other hand, decided to pursue a master’s degree in mental health nursing. Now she thinks she knows everything about relationships and psychoanalyzes all of my problems.
Her blonde paradox theory is based on two recent research studies—the type you read about in magazines at grocery store checkouts. The first study found that women who look like Barbie—blonde, blue eyed, big boobs—are more attractive to men. Something about these features signifies a more fertile womb to the caveman brain. I loosely fit this description. I do have blue eyes but my hair is more of a honey blonde than platinum. My boobs are on the large side but it’s because I’m about fifteen pounds heavier than my goal weight.
However, Michelle thinks I am close enough to ignite evolutionary passions and this explains why I never lack masculine attention.
But here’s the rub. The second study found that men shown pictures of Barbie-ish women scored lower on intelligence tests. Turns out people who believe the “blondes are dumb” stereotype actually take on the projected characteristics of their prejudicial target. Thus the paradox. I attracted more men than the average woman, but they degraded into idiots in my presence.
The theory did explain some things. Like why I ended up with my snake-belly of an ex-boyfriend, Gary, while Michelle, who was 5’2” and 160 pounds of dark-headed attitude, was married with a baby.
“So, what should I do? Dye my hair?” I asked.
“Or contacts. Green might be nice.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“No. I’m not. You’re a wonderful person. You just need to find someone who will love you for you, the whole package. I know he’s out there, somewhere.”
“I hope you’re right. I can’t take another Gary,” I said.
Silence. Michelle was probably holding her tongue so that she wouldn’t say, ‘I told you so.’ Smart woman. “So what’s the free house look like? Is it as bad as you expected?” she finally asked.
“No. It’s super cute! I can’t believe this place hasn’t sold. Great curb appeal, fresh paint. Hold on, I’m going inside.”
I fumbled in my pocket for the key and turned it in the brass lock. The door opened and the sun cast a square of light around my silhouette. I patted the wall for the light switch and soon an elegant chandelier glowed from above.
“Wow, Michelle, it’s fabulous! You have got to see this. Hardwood floors, two-story foyer, curved staircase.” I walked into the kitchen. “Holy crow, stainless steel appliances!”
Michelle squealed on the other end of the phone. We were both expecting a dump. I mean, after I had to crawl to my real estate agent dad for help, I kind of thought the unsellable place he gave me to stay would be a punishment. Compared to my last apartment—or worse, the dorm room Michelle and I lived in at college—this place was a palace.
“Hold on, I’m going to check out the rest of it.” I walked to the front of the house and opened the curtains, bathing the main floor in natural light. The place had an elegant dining room and a family room with a flat-screen television. The living room’s floral print screamed old-lady, but I wasn’t complaining. The furniture looked new. I talked Michelle through the tour, bounding up the stairs two at a time to check out the bedrooms. Besides a little dust, the place was meticulously maintained.
On the second-floor landing, I tossed back the curtains to have a look at my new backyard and was so distressed by what I saw I dropped my phone. I tried to catch it with my other hand but it bounced off my palm. Thankfully, the thick carpet of the landing saved me from certain communication purgatory.
“Grateful? You still there?”
I scrambled to return it to my ear. “I think I figured out why this house hasn’t sold yet,” I said.
“Why? Is the yard small?”
Turning back toward the glass, I tried my best to remain calm. The yard sloped from the house toward a scrollwork, wrought iron fence that bordered the property. Behind the fence, row after row of tombstones stretched across the landscape, with the odd mausoleum thrown in for good measure. The graveyard I’d seen driving into town extended all the way to my back door.
“My backyard is a cemetery,” I deadpanned.
“Seriously? Is that even legal?”
“I’ve gotta go, Michelle,” I said. “I need to take this up with my real estate agent.”
“Okay. Say hi to your dad for me.”
* * * * *
I paced the floral living room, trying to keep my voice from climbing to the octave of hysteria. I was pretty close. Any higher and dogs would come running. “Dad, you could have told me.”
“Sweetheart, it’s nothing. Keep the drapes closed and no one will ever know.”
“Don’t you think an important piece of information to share with a potential homeowner is the number of dead people buried in the backyard?”
“Now, don’t overreact. First of all, may I remind you that you are not the homeowner, but a custodian, so to speak. And think of it this way—your neighbors are quiet, keep-to-themselves type of people.” I heard a muffled chuckle.
“I can hear you laughing,” I said. “I’ve told you before, putting your hand over the receiver does not work. Can’t you understand why this might freak me out a little? I’m here all alone.”
“I’m telling you, a few nights there, and you’ll forget why you were ever worried,” Dad said. “Plus, if you get scared, the caretaker of the cemetery lives just over the bridge from you. Come to think of it, he would probably give you a tour if you wanted. Maybe that would put you at ease.”
“Oh sure, a tour of the cemetery with some old, creepy caretaker is just what I need to feel at home!” My voice was rising again. I was painfully close to looking the gift horse in the mouth.
“Grateful, I love you.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I wouldn’t put you in harm’s way.”
“I know, Dad.”
“I stocked the wine cellar and the refrigerator for you.”
Like that mattered. We were talking about dead people here. “This place has a wine cellar?”
“In the basement.”
“Awww, you’re the best.” I guess there was no resisting Daddy’s charm.
“So you’ll give it a few nights?”
“Sure.”
There are few things in this world I won’t do for a really fine bottle of Shiraz, and fewer still that I won’t do for my dad. I wasn’t going to let a bunch of dead people ruin my chances at a new life. He was right. I could do this.
I ended the call and raced to the little door behind the kitchen that led to the basement. To my pleasant surprise it was a finished walkout; too bad if you walked out it would be straight toward the dead people. I tried to ignore the view and veered toward the wine cellar. It was as big as a bedroom, with separate sections for reds and whites to keep them at the optimal temperature. Looking over the rows of bottles, their labels turned upward, my mood significantly improved. Dad hadn’t let me down; my favorite label was at eye level. I grabbed the familiar bottle of Shiraz from the reds and headed upstairs.
Dad had come through on the food as well. I found a plate from Valentines, my favorite restaurant. Salmon fillet, perfect for one, some red potatoes and fresh asparagus. I popped it into the microwave. Cooking with wine is my specialty, so I grabbed a glass and reached for my old friend, Mr. Shiraz. Unfortunately, the bottle in my hand was Pinot gris.
“That’s weird,” I said to myself. I could have sworn I’d grabbed the red. Odder still, the white was cold. I didn’t remember going into the refrigerated section at all.
I revisited the cellar. The bottle of red that I’d wanted was back in its spot. I replaced the white in its space in the cooler and ran back upstairs with my Shiraz, double-checking the label. Man, I was losing it.
I uncorked the bottle and poured myself a glass, admiring the clarity and subtle scent of berries while I walked it into the dining room. I drained my glass with an unladylike swig. Who cared anyway? Like my dad said, the neighbors wouldn’t be talking. That’s why I was more than a little surprised when the doorbell rang. I set the bottle and glass down and approached the door cautiously. It rang again.
“Can I help you?” I yelled through the etched glass oval of the door. A man’s silhouette sliced the twilight, and there was no way I was opening up without some credentials.
The man’s muffled voice filtered through the door. “Hello? I’m Rick Ordenes, from up the street. Your dad asked me to stop by and check on you.”
“Up the street?” I hadn’t noticed any neighbors.
“Yes, I live across the bridge. I’m the caretaker.”
“Oh. Hold on.” It was nice of my
dad to send the old guy over to check on me. I unlocked the dead bolt and opened the door.
And came face to face with the chiseled Adonis from the side of the road.
Chapter 2
I Break My Own Rules
“Is this yours?” he asked, holding the box I’d forgotten on the porch.
“Yeah.” With some effort, I lifted it from his hands and dropped it ungracefully into the corner of the foyer. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Even more striking up close, I wanted to snap his picture so I could post it on Facebook along with the status, Getta load of my new neighbor. Outlined in my doorway by the orangey purple sunset, it was like the sky was blushing at the sight of him. And what a sight it was. He was taller than me with dark, wavy hair and a straight white smile that contrasted nicely with his Spanish complexion. Masculine, with a long-muscled grace, he reminded me somewhat of a matador or Flamenco dancer. Almost regal.
“Rick Ordenes.” He extended his hand. “I’m the caretaker.”
I shook it. “Has anyone ever told you, you don’t look like the typical cemetery caretaker?”
“What does a typical caretaker look like?”
“I don’t know. I was expecting old and gray.”
He laughed. “Believe it or not, it takes resilience to do my job. An aged man would struggle with the work.”
“I never thought of it that way.” I hoped I hadn’t offended him.
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re not what I expected, either.”
“Oh, you mean based on my father’s description of his deadbeat daughter,” I said, grinning.
The Ghost and The Graveyard (The Monk's Hill Witch) Page 1